“Reason?” Rechts went on. “Reason doesn’t come into it. An innocent boy burned, an untainted village destroyed, all at the hand of our self-proclaimed protectors. Show me the reason in that.” In a much smaller voice, he added, “I can still smell my mother’s ash on my hands…”
Masbrecht was indignant. “I still don’t—” he began, Karlich already frowning and about to tell him to close his trap before Rechts interceded.
“Speak further and I’ll cut out your tongue.” He’d ripped a dirk from its scabbard and held it levelly, especially considering he was well inebriated.
“Put it away, Torsten,” said Karlich in a firm voice. “Trooper Rechts!” he added a moment later.
Rechts obeyed, looked at Masbrecht once more, who was paling a little by then, and left.
Karlich watched him wander off down the street. Come the morning, he’d send Volker to look for him. He turned to say something to Masbrecht but he was leaving too, heading in the opposite direction. That was something, at least. Karlich sat down, his bones never more weary. As he sipped at his tepid ale, he scowled.
“Definitely tastes like soot.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FESTERING WOUNDS
Wurtbad, capital of Stirland,
398 miles from Altdorf
Two concessions were made concerning the admittance of foreign troops into Wurtbad. The first allowed a few regiments at a time, no more than two hundred men, to spend a night in town away from the pitched encampment outside the border walls. The second instructed that all injured men in need of care beyond the skill of army chirurgeons would be housed under the auspices of the temple of Shallya until such time as they could return to their regiment.
These hospitium were not merely found in the temple itself. The badly wounded and the dying were in such numbers that it would not have coped. Inns, stately abodes, barracks and even barns were given over to the ministration of the sick and ailing. Locals avoided such places; they were grim and unpleasant to look upon. The stench of necrosis and old rot made the air inside them rank and noisome. Wailing and moaning was a common, morale-eating choms. Few soldiers emerged alive, let alone whole. Several of the town’s sawbones had already earned tidy profits from the Prince of Reikland’s coffers for their diligent labours over the gangrenous and diseased. Shallyan priestesses moved between sweaty cots with a tireless grace and brought blankets from the recently deceased for the newly admitted. Steamed over the hot springs which Wurtbad was famous for, the blankets were damp and reeked of latent death. Dingy, so as to hide the horror of it from their inmates and nurses, the hospitium maintained an air of the desolate and gladly forgotten.
Eber was one of the fortunate. He would live and escape with all his limbs. Strong as an ox, determined as an Ostland bull, his natural stamina and phlegmatic humour had seen him through the worst. Masbrecht had applied bandages expertly on the heath and likely saved the burly Reiklander a lot of blood, possibly even his life. The battlefield was still beyond him, but a few more days of healing and rest would see Eber take up his halberd again. He longed to be back amongst his brothers.
Sitting up in his cot, Eber bowed his head as a grey-faced priest of Morr drifted by. Cadaverous and silent within his black robes, he was more wraith than man. A quiet prayer of warding and the sign of the raven would have to keep the God of Death and Dreams at bay. At least, Eber hoped it would.
Once the priest was gone, off to perform the final rites of soul binding for some poor wretch, Eber looked around. It was almost smoky in the dim lantern light but his heart spiked painfully in his wounded chest when he saw someone he recognised just a few cots away from his.
Torveld was sitting over the edge of his cot wearing a blank expression. He was being attended by a Shallyan matriarch. Her robes were grimy and stained with blood but she still managed to look pure. She carried a candle, perfectly poised, in one hand. She was discussing Torveld’s condition with one of the army’s quartermasters, a slightly corpulent man who dabbed his forehead with a rag every few seconds and whose leather hauberk strained at the gut. Eber wondered how long before he was being ministered by the sisters of mercy. They spoke in low voices, but Eber still overheard them.
According to the matriarch, Torveld had lost his memory. Leastways, he had no recollection of the past few months. His head wound was well healed, though. Physically fine, he could return to his regiment and the campaign.
At this brief summary, the quartermaster nodded and went to a large book of parchments he had in his hand. Torveld was still wearing his bloodstained uniform and the quartermaster leafed through the broad pages laboriously. It was hard to see, but Eber made out heraldries, regimental markings and banner icons as the pages were turned. Having found what he sought, the quartermaster frowned.
His voice was a low murmur. Even though he couldn’t hear it, Eber knew what was said: Torveld’s regiment, the Middenland Steel Swords, were dead. He was the only survivor. The northerner appeared not to understand the import of the quartermaster’s words. Eber imagined a mental shrug in the man’s neutral demeanour.
“Well, he can’t stay here in the temple,” said the matriarch. Her voice was soft but her message unyielding.
“It’s a return to the army then, my lad,” the quartermaster addressed Torveld directly, “There’ll be a use for you there.”
Torveld was then led away by the quartermaster, a walking husk awaiting a soul to fill it. Confident whatever choleric intent the Middenlander harboured was lost to amnesia, Eber eased back onto his cot. The pain in his chest flared. His wounds were still raw. A gentle touch soothed his shoulder. A priestess of Shallya calmly requested that he should lie down. Eber was sweating. Blood darkened his bandages in faint blossoms of vermillion. He did as asked, turning his head to watch Torveld leave the temple and his sight.
Nothing to worry about there, he told himself, nothing at all.
The sun hurt his eyes as Evik Torveld left the temple. He was only half listening as the quartermaster gave him directions to the town gate. Once at the encampment, he was to report to Sergeant Hauker for duties. A moment later, the quartermaster had returned inside to assess some of the other wounded and Torveld was left alone.
He was still finding his bearings when he noticed another soldier walking through Wurtbad’s streets. The uniform triggered something buried in Torveld’s damaged mind. His hand went to the head wound out of reflex. Anger burned through the fog clouding Torveld’s memory, a line of heat that left a core of rage and vengeance behind. Sturnbled, Wode… all his brothers of Ulric, all dead. “Grimblades…” he muttered like a curse. Torveld clenched his fists until the knuckles whitened, then headed after the soldier.
* * *
For the first time in years, Masbrecht needed a drink. He felt the familiar gravel taste in his mouth, the cotton tongue behind itching teeth. Sweat soaked the back of his tunic. Just a tiny patch in the small of his back, but it told him the craving was upon him. He’d fought hard to deny it, burying the little voice inside him under the weight of faith and religion. Foolishly, he thought he’d beaten it but it was there, waiting for a moment of weakness.
The streets were quiet. Most Wurtbad residents stayed indoors after dark, fearing attack from the greenskins. Others never left the taverns, satisfied to drink themselves into oblivion until the dawn. Being insensible made it easy to forget, if just for a while. Masbrecht didn’t want to go to a tavern. He wanted to drink alone, to indulge and be damned. The brewhouses were shut and bolted. He wandered down a side alley. It was cluttered with refuse and other scraps. Urine ringed the air in an invisible pall. Drunken shapes lolled in its darkest recesses.
Masbrecht walked over to one. The man was filthy and wore the remnants of a docker’s garb. He was snoring loudly, clutching a grimy bottle. His pepper-stubble cheeks blew in and out with every laboured breath.
Without thinking, Masbrecht snatched the bottle. He took a quick pull. The liquor was fiery hot. It burned the bac
k of his throat and he coughed hard, bringing up phlegm. Wiping his mouth, he took another, wincing as the liquid went down.
All the deaths, all the lies and compromises of the last few days and weeks would disappear in a fog of drunkenness. Masbrecht embraced it, tears welling in his eyes. Cold, grey faces came to him as he closed his eyes to the pain.
Varveiter, lost at Blosstadt…
Eber, brutally stabbed and fighting for his life…
Keller, hung by the neck with his own rope…
Captain Stahler, cold and lifeless on a death priest’s cart…
It didn’t feel right. It wasn’t right. None of it was. As Masbrecht supped, filling his body with the poison he had renounced for over five years, the old docker slowly stirred. Like a child without its blanket, he missed the presence of the bottle. He awoke with a grunt, then was screaming unintelligibly at the man who had stolen his grog. Surprised, Masbrecht pulled his dagger and brandished it at him.
“Stay there, you old dog,” he cried. “Stay there or I’ll cut you!”
The old docker recoiled, holding up his hands and pleading clemency.
“Give mercy, milord. Don’t tar your blade with an old sot like me, I beg ya.”
Reality hit Masbrecht like a flood. The bottle shattered on the ground before he even knew he’d dropped it, waking up the other drunks.
“In Sigmar’s name…” He fled back out into the accusing night.
“Bastard…” he heard from down the alley. “My grog…”
Masbrecht got as far as a tinker’s before he had to stop and be sick. The liquor came back just as hot and unpleasant. Putting his fingers down his throat he puked again, just to be sure he was rid of it.
Kneeling in his own vomit, Masbrecht clasped his hands together in a desperate prayer. They were shaking.
“Merciful Sigmar, guide me in my time of need. I am lost without your hand upon my shoulder.”
Somewhere in the distance, bells were tolling. Masbrecht had heard them before. They belonged to the temple of Sigmar near the town square. Salvation was close. He made for the bells at once, unaware that someone was following him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HARD TRUTHS
Wurtbad, capital of Stirland,
398 miles from Altdorf
Krieglitz’s hall was empty and echoing. The blazing hearth crackled, rudely invading the quietude and casting flickering grey slashes against the walls. A portrait hung above the fire, hinted at through the passing shadows. A noble bearing suggested itself and Wilhelm, pondering over his goblet of mulled spice-wine, thought it was probably Martin, one of Neder’s most famous ancestors.
The lambent light gave the room a warm impression. Thick, woollen rugs swathed the floor, a patch of flagstone visible here and there between them. Bare wooden beams stood in ranks along the walls and arched overhead like dark, embracing arms. A pair of crossed swords, a halberd and spear hung between the vertical beams. Tapestries were lost in shadow.
Wilhelm found the rustic aesthetic pleasing. It was a blessed rural tonic compared to Dieter’s lavishly appointed chambers. He eased into the furs draped across the back of his chair, still leafing through a series of missives and reports.
“Averheim holds at least,” he said with a hint of bitter irony.
“The beast is moving, Wilhelm,” said Krieglitz. “It has sated its lust for carnage in our hinterlands and seeks fresh enemies.”
Wilhelm looked up at Krieglitz, wearisome at the bleakness in the reports and returned petitions.
The two men faced each other across a table of rough-hewn oak. They had stripped out of their battle gear, in favour of light clothes and short cloaks. A change of attire was most welcome in Wilhelm’s opinion, though that and a bath had done nothing to cleanse the taint of defeat and loss. Six days in Wurtbad so far for the army to regroup and for Wilhelm to decide what to do next. Several officers had requested an immediate return to Reikland. The Lord Protector of Stirland was right, Grom and his horde were moving, likely westward to the heartlands of the Empire. The fact remained though that Wilhelm’s army, especially depleted as it was, could not match the greenskins. He needed allies. Petitions for aid had been sent to all states and provinces upon his arrival in the Stirland capital. The first replies to those missives had arrived that evening.
“No word from Wissenland?”
“Pfeifraucher hasn’t changed his position, nor will he,” Krieglitz returned.
“And what about you, Neder? What’s your position?”
The mounted head of a great boar, the cured and stuffed carcass of an elk caught Wilhelm’s eye. The shadows and the fire gave them a strange sense of verisimilitude. The prince suddenly imagined them roaming the wild, straying into the hunter’s sights… He felt an uncomfortable empathy with the beasts’ plight.
“Orcs and goblins still rove my lands,” replied Krieglitz. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t join your crusade, especially not with victory so uncertain. As Dieter’s regent, I can hardly go against him either.” His face darkened as he drew back into shadow. Wilhelm thought it might be shame that made him do it.
“And I cannot leave the Reikmark to be ravaged, either,” he said. “Is there nothing you can do?”
“I don’t think a prince has ever pleaded with me before.”
Wilhelm’s reply was curt.
“Not pleading—asking.”
“Sorry, brother.” Krieglitz looked downcast. He was only a lord protector and had no right to address a royal son of Reikland like that. “I can provide an escort to the border but that’s all. Don’t forget, as well as greenskins, I have Sylvania stirring in the east.”
There was no better news in the returned missives. Wilhelm stood up abruptly.
“Then there’s nothing further to discuss. Thank you for the wine, but I’ve lost my taste for it.”
“Willhelm…”
The prince was turning to leave and glanced back sharply.
“Save your contrition, Neder. It counts for nothing on the battlefield.”
Wilhelm was walking away, disappearing into shadow, when Krieglitz spoke tip.
“What will you do?”
Wilhelm stopped.
“Try to find more troops at Nuln, rally the townships and citizen militias, whatever I can. Perhaps Dieter will deploy his armies when the goblins are at his gates, but I doubt it.”
Krieglitz left an awkward pause before replying. “I am sorry, brother.”
“The army will be gone by morning,” said Wilhelm, then carried on walking.
Rechts and Masbrecht were missing. Outside Wurtbad in the pre-dawn light, a muster was forming. The Grimblades were supposed to be a part of it. Except Karlich and a small group were still in the town square, two bodies short. It was finally time to return to Reikland.
“Find them both,” he said to Volker, his annoyance obvious. “Bring them back here to me. We might have an hour before Vogen starts asking questions.”
With the tragic death of Captain Stahler, Vogen had taken over command of all the remaining infantry regiments. A tall order, but most of the soldiers that comprised it were veterans and could look to their sergeants for guidance. Vogen was enough of a pragmatist to let this happen and oversee where needed.
Volker nodded and jogged off into town.
“And us, sergeant,” asked Lenkmann, “what should we do?”
Brand stood silently alongside him, together with Greiss. The rest of the Grimblades were already outside Wurtbad’s gates on the mustering field, which now closely resembled a cesspool after several thousand men had been camped there. Small wonder that the Stirlanders were glad for the foreign exodus.
Karlich looked sour and he glared at the banner bearer. “We wait.”
Volker found Masbrecht in a pool of his own blood. The temple of Sigmar was the first place he thought to look, but he was unhappy at the discovery he made there. Fortunately, there was no one else present save for the old priest who ministered it. Fro
m him, Volker learned that several Wurtbad folk had already seen the body. That in itself wouldn’t be such a problem were it not for the fact of what was written in the blood.
Masbrecht was on his knees, as if in penitent genuflection. In death, he slumped against a statue of Sigmar, just below a set of stone steps leading up to the temple’s main altar. Dried blood streaked his neck where it looked like he’d slit his own throat. The wound gaped like a red smile that was anything but humorous. The tips of Masbrecht’s fingers were red too. His confession was written in blood alongside him. It told of the assassination attempt on Wilhelm, of a “traitor in the Reikland” and his guilt in what he saw as complicity in keeping the threat of it secret.
“Incredible that he wrote so much when his lifeblood was ebbing like that,” said Lenkmann.
As soon as he’d found the body, Volker had instructed the old priest to seal the temple until his return, which he did along with Karlich and the others. They’d all been staring for almost a minute before Lenkmann had broken the silence.
“I’ve seen men do more than that,” offered Brand.
All except Karlich turned to regard the unsettling Reiklander.
“What’s he holding in his left hand?” asked the sergeant.
“Must’ve missed that…” muttered Volker and crouched beside the body. It was hard to see in the murky confines of the temple. Masbrecht’s left hand was also crushed up against the statue where he’d slumped.
Volker prised a scroll loose. The dead man’s body had yet to rigor.
It was a map Masbrecht was clutching in his bloodied fingers.
“Where in Morr’s name did he get that?” asked Volker.
Karlich recognised the self-same piece of parchment Ledner had showed him before they’d been charged with the prince’s preservation on the heath. Except, it couldn’t be. Ledner had burned it.
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